Happy Dysfunctional Family
by kola21
Summary: A FrUk/FACE family story - When Kiku finds a way for homosexuals to have children, will Francis and Arthur be able to handle the hard job of parenthood?  All Characters - Hetalia: Axis Powers
1. Kiku's Request

"Prease," the Japanese man said, watching his friend, "I would be greatry honored if you could do this for me."

The Englishman looked at his friend with an uneasy expression, biting his lip. Sighing, he looked away slightly, running a hand through his hair, "I don't know… Would it be dangerous?" he said after a moment. "Not at arru," the Japanese man said, stumbling over the last word. The Englishman put his hand on his hip, scratching his head, "Well, alright… I'll have to ask Francis, though I'm sure the pervert will agree anyway…" The Japanese man bowed, face flushed with excitement, "Ah! Thank you!"

Arthur Kirkland lived in a small apartment complex, in the middle of a large-but-quite-poor city. He had lived there for a couple months with his husband, Francis Bonnefoy. The rent there was cheap too; meaning they had a lot of spending money.

The home was only temporary, for Francis worked as a full-time food and wine critic, so he travelled frequently for his job. Sometimes, Arthur would join him. Other times, the two would move to a different country, and stay there for a while. So far, the couple had been to Italy, Switzerland, Greece and Taiwan.

By the time Arthur got home his spouse had already started dinner. "You could've let me make dinner this time, you always seem to make dinner," Arthur said, pouting slightly as he pulled his brown, leather messenger bag over his head and dropped it onto a chair near the front door.

"Oui, well… " the Frenchman decided stop before he said anything to get his lover angry. As much as he loved seeing Arthur angry – he was so cute– he wanted to keep the man in a good mood today. Maybe he'd get some loving if he didn't piss the Englishman off too much.

"Were there any good wines today or were they all just plonk?"

"Non. Some were good."

The front door was one of those that opened onto the living room. A computer was sitting on the coffee table in the cramped living room, next to the couch. Arthur walked over to it, sighing slightly, and plopped down on the couch. He leaned back on the old loveseat, relaxing and closing his eyes. A pair of soft lips pressed against his forehead, and he opened his eyes slowly to what he knew to be Francis. Arthur pushed his husband back a little, murmuring with a blush, "Naff off, you wanker."

The Frenchman grinned, only persisting on annoying his lover by leaning down, kissing him lightly. "Oi, naff off," Arthur said, frowning at Francis. After a little laugh, the older man backed off, and sauntered back into the kitchen, which was also quite small. It was only about a 4x5 foot room, but it had a counter with a sink, jammed together with a rundown refrigerator and a stove. Across from that, as there were no doors between the kitchen, living room and dining room, was a round wooden table, with only two chairs sitting at either end. It was quite big for the place it resided in, but little in retrospect to others.

After a moment, the delightful smell of the Frenchman's cooking was too much, and Arthur got up, meandering over to peek into the kitchen. Francis turned, in each hand precariously holding something. In his left, two bowls of some kind of opaque soup, and in the other, a plate of bread slices. "Déplacer," the man said gracefully, and swept past the Englishman as he stepped out of the way. Arthur sat down at the table without a word, letting his husband serve him quietly. "What is zhis? You are very quiet," commented Francis lightly, looking up at Arthur with one of his sideways glances. "You are not usually zhis quiet, somezhing is wrong, no?"

"No, nothing is wrong," Arthur said, taking a spoonful of the cream-colored soup. "Oh, but zhere is, mon chéri," the Frenchman continued stubbornly, "What is it zhat is bothering you?"

"I said it's nothing, so it's nothing!" Arthur said, glaring up at Francis, slamming his spoon down on the table. Francis frowned at him, "Well, I was only trying to 'elp," he huffed. Arthur took up his spoon and began to eat again. They ate slowly and in complete silence, before Arthur sighed, putting down his silverware. He was going to have to ask him eventually, so he may as well do it now…

"Francis?"

"Hmm?" the Frenchman said, looking over at his husband, "Apologizing? Zhat isn't like you, Arthur~" he teased.

"I'm not apologizing!" Arthur spat in his defense, and then after a moment sighing, "…I did have something on my mind earlier. I met an ol' chum of mine today, Kiku Honda. Remember, the Japanese bloke? Anyway, he wanted to know… well, he's kind of been…" Arthur blushed, and looked down into the half-eaten soup. Francis waited patiently, knowing his little tsundere lover would spit it out eventually. "Oh, bollocks, you see well, Kiku is doing some research with DNA and such, and he thinks he has figured out a way to… to… What I mean to say is, for two gays to… have children…" Arthur shifted uncomfortably, knowing his pervert of a husband probably had a grin from ear to ear on his face… he didn't even want to look.

Francis was quite surprised by this, and while it was true he had a smug little grin on his face, he asked, "And so?"

Arthur hesitated, "And so… Kiku asked me if I could help with his research by because he knows that I'm…" the Englishman's face turned a little redder, "…married to you."

"Ohohon~ Do you want to have my children?" Francis teased, his smirk growing wider. Arthurs face turned a bright red, like one of their neighbor Antonio's tomatoes, and he stood up, "N-no way, you wanker! Who would ever want your children?" And he stormed off into their bedroom, slamming the door behind him. The Frenchman watched his husband leave, before standing up slowly, not wanting to finish his soup now. "Such a brute," Francis hummed, cleaning up the table slowly, and disposing of the dishes in the sink, deciding to clean them later.

When Francis was finally done with everything he needed to do, he eventually wandered over to the bedroom. It was small, and could only hold a bed and a medium-sized dresser, but it fit them well. Usually Francis would have some wine before he went to sleep, but he figured he should be completely sober to discuss an important matter with his husband.

Arthur was lying in the bed, curled into the covers so much that Francis couldn't have any of it. Francis sighed, and stripped, knowing that the Englishman was still awake, and that he was still fuming. The Frenchman slowly buttoned up his purple silk pajamas, and walked over to the bed, sitting down on it gracefully. Francis laid down on his side, facing Arthur, propping up his head with his arm, because it seemed Arthur had hidden his pillow somewhere too. "Arzhur…" he murmured, poking the bundle of blankets. It shifted slightly, but still did not turn his way. "Arzhur~" he hummed, watching the cocoon, "Arzhur, look, there's a fairy over here," In a flash, Arthur threw his covers off, most of them littering the floor now, as he looked around the room eagerly, "What? Where?" Francis gave a chuckle, and Arthur frowned instantly, knowing he had been duped. "You tosser! I really had thought one of my friends had come to visit me!" Arthur said, bitterly shoving Francis with his foot. The Frenchman laughed a little more before pushing himself up into a sitting position, and moving over to sit closer to Arthur. He took his arms, wrapping them around the Englishman, pulling him onto his lap. Francis tightened his hug on Arthur's waist as the younger man began to struggle slightly. "Get off me, you—" the Englishman's words were cut short by a little gasp as an unexpected kiss landed in the nape of his neck. Blushing, Arthur fell silent for a second, becoming completely still. Francis held his lover for a few minutes before striking up the conversation that was inevitable, "Arzhur, about zhe 'aving of children," There was no response from the Englishman, but Francis could tell even from behind the he was blushing. After a moment, Arthur spoke grudgingly, "We don't have to if you don't want to. I did tell Kiku I would have to ask you first." Francis' face split into a grin, as he couldn't usually keep serious for long, and he kissed Arthurs neck once more, "Let's do it. Compter sur moi." Arthur squirmed slightly in his husbands grasp, twisting around so he could see Francis' face. Even if all the seriousness had left Francis' face, his eyes shown with sincerity, and Arthur gave a little smile. "Alright, now get off me, you wanker," the Englishman said, his face becoming more serious, as he smacked Francis over the head. Francis only gave one of his lewd laughs, tightening his grip, leaning forward and kissing Arthur on the jaw. The Englishman blushed, trying to push his husband off him, "You pervert, let go of me!"

Francis smirked, running a hand up his husband's shirt, proceeding to kiss and touch the Englishman until late into the night.


	2. Morning Jitters

When Arthur awoke, he found himself tightly embraced in Francis' arms. It seemed the pervert was still asleep. The Englishman glanced at the digital clock on the dresser, the time showed about six in the morning. It was still dark. He had better get up though. Prying Francis' hands from his body, he almost escaped the Frenchman's grasp, but Francis only tightened his grip, pulling Arthur closer. The Englishman let out a short spurt of air through his teeth, scoffing at his clingy husband. "Get off me, you frog," he mumbled, once again trying to pry himself from Francis' hold. He finally managed to, and got up, smoothing out his green button-up pajamas. Slowly he began to undress, stripping off his clothes until he was only in boxers.

Arthur walked over to the dresser, pulling out a pair of casual slacks and a white dress shirt. He didn't need much, for today he'd only be buying groceries and checking up on things.

Arthur had only stuck one leg into his sepia trousers, when he heard a whistle from behind. Blushing, the Englishman quickly stood up straight, involuntarily pulling up his pants to cover his boxers, and turned to see his husband lying on the bed, head propped up by one arm, smirking. "Oh, but I 'ad such a nice view~" Francis teased. Arthur swiftly picked up the nearest thing available, which happened to be one of his best shoes, and threw it at Francis' head. The Frenchman easily blocked the shoe with one of his arms, giving a soft chuckle. "Oh, sod off," the Englishman snarled, and began to quickly shove his pants on. Francis frowned a little, "You are going in zhose boring clothes again? Impensable!" Francis pushed himself off the bed, "'ere, I will let you borrow some of my clothes."

"My clothes are perfectly fine!" Arthur shot back.

"Non, zhey are boring! Chiante!"

"Oh, shut up!" complained the Englishman, yanking on his jacket with violent force. Francis stood up, walking over next to Arthur, and slowly sifting through the clothes before picking out a pair of black straight leg jeans and a pink dress shirt. Arthur groaned.

"Bloody hell, you aren't going to wear that, are you?" The Englishman asked with a hint of disgust in his tone.

"And what is wrong with my clothes?" Francis retorted indignantly, "They are better than your drab apparel!"

"Well at least I don't look like a fruity buffoon!"

"Who are you calling a 'fruity buffoon', you pompous—"

At that moment, the phone rang. "I'll get it," said Arthur, leaving the room. He wasn't bothered by the insults and neither was Francis. It was basically a daily routine they went through, it was just a part of life.

Arthur picked up the phone, speaking into it automatically, "Hello?" A familiar voice answered, his tone rhythmic and flat, "Arshur, this is Kiku. I am calling about what we discussed the other day."

"Ah, yes," Arthur paused, and there was a silence for a moment as his Japanese friend waited patiently for him to continue, "Yes, we have agreed to take up on your offer." There was a little intake of breath, and then a sigh, followed by, "Thank you, then we shall meet whenever it is good for you."  
>"Uh, hold on a moment," Arthur turned away from the phone, his hand on the receiver , "Francis!"<p>

"Oui…?" Francis said, peeking out from the doorframe of the bedroom, buttoning up his pink dress shirt.

"Are there any days you are off this week?"

Francis paused, thinking for a moment, then slowly responded, "Oui, I zhink… tomorrow. I 'ave somezhing in the evening, but ozher zhan zhat… I am free. Why?"

Arthur did not answer him at first, turning back to the phone, "Would tomorrow morning be alright with you?"

"Hai, that would be perfect."

"Splendid."

"I think it would be best for you to come to the raboratory." Kiku said, then gave Arthur the address.

"Ah, wait, wait… Let me get something to write it down on." Arthur set the phone down and slipped into the kitchen.

"So?" Francis asked, standing by the counter, gracefully working with a French Press, "Who was zhat?"

"That was Kiku, we're going over tomorrow to discuss…" Arthurs face burned, and he had a hard time saying anything for a moment, so Francis continued for him, "Us having children?" Arthur gave a little nod, before quickly grabbing a pen and piece of paper out of a drawer, walking briskly back to the phone.

He sprawled down the address in his sloppy script, and then said a quick goodbye.

When Arthur made his way back toward the kitchen, he had to stop in the dining room; he found Francis had begun to serve breakfast, a cup of coffee and a type of French bread called a 'brioche'. Francis motioned for Arthur to sit, and Arthur did. As he drank his coffee slowly, the Englishman's mind wandered. "Francis," he asked, suddenly thinking of something, "Do you think I'll be an adequate father?" There was a pause as Francis looked up, then he nodded, "Of course mon chéri," then he gave a smirk, "Of course, I zhink you would be more of a mozher." Arthur almost spit out his coffee, "That's bollocks! Why would I be the mother! If anything, _you_ would be the mother, what with your long hair and sissy attitude!"

"My long 'air makes me manlier," Francis said simply, then continued, "And I do not 'ave a sissy attitude!"

"Yes you do! You nancy-boy! You can't even stand to be outside when it's below fifty degrees without a coat and scarf!"

"My scarf est stylish!" Francis shot back, and then he smirked, "Anyway, you can't be zhe fazher, and how could you possibly be when you are never on top?"  
>This time, Arthur really did spit out his coffee. He spluttered and coughed until hot coffee was spilling down the side of the mug, burning his fingers. Flinching slightly, Arthur put the mug on the table, letting out a few choice curses, his face still red from Francis' comment. When he glanced back up at the seat where Francis had been, he was gone.<p>

In less than a nanosecond he was back, a wet rag in his hand. Francis extended his hand, as if to ask for Arthurs. Slowly, Arthur gave Francis his hand. But instead of using the rag, Francis began to bring his husbands hand up to his lips, and Arthur immediately jerked his hand away, face getting redder. "Just give me that rag, you frog!" Arthur said, snatching the cold, wet towel from the Frenchman's grasp and beginning to wipe his hand himself. Francis gave another one of his smirks, moving back to his seat. As he reseated himself back at the table, Arthur persisted, "But, really… Do you think we could raise a family? I mean, I'm a man and you're a man… And—"

"What does zhat matter?" Francis interrupted, "As long as zhere is love, what does it matter?"

Arthur could not think of a way to respond back to that, so he let it go. He gave a little sigh, "Alright, I guess you aren't a complete ninny after all."

Francis opened his mouth to retort back, but he seemed to remember something and stopped. Quickly, he glanced at the analog clock on the wall, and then stood up with a mixture of his usual grace and a stark hastiness. "Ah, désolé, I 'ave to go or I'll be late."

"Alright," Arthur said, "I'll cook dinner tonight then."

"Uh, don't worry, ma belle, you don't 'ave to go zhrough all zhe trouble."

"Oh, I'll be fine. I have some recipes I have yet to try. They've been passed down my family for centuries!"

Francis nodded and walked toward the front door grimly. Tonight would be hell for his delicate palette. But as soon as he reached the door, he seemed to brighten a little. "Arzhur, come over 'ere for a moment!" he said and turned around to face back into the living room. Arthur did as he was asked, pondering curiously, "What is it?"

"Come over 'ere, look at zhis!" Francis said, beckoning towards the door, pointing at something on the face of the door that Arthur couldn't see. The Englishman approached the door curiously, bending forward slightly and examining the door. "What am I suppose to be looking at?"

"Azthur…"

Arthur looked up at Francis, "Hmm?"

In an instant, Francis had leaned down and kissed the un-expecting Arthur. With a sly grin, he slipped out the door before Arthur had the time to pick up something, like a chair for instance, and throw it at him.

Arthur, a little infuriated and embarrassed, sat down on the couch, giving a pout, "Wanker, he could've just asked."


	3. Yorkshire Pudding

Cold silence rang throughout the room, and now that Francis was gone, it was surprisingly lonely in the house. Soon it wouldn't be too lonely though.  
>For a brief moment, Arthur reflected on the thought of having kids, and then shook his head of the idea. The time would come soon enough; right now, it was time to get to work.<p>

Arthur was able to work at home, as he was currently writing a book on Cryptozoology, and about why most people these days hadn't seen many, as the general populace called them, 'mythical creatures'. The Englishman knew they were real of course; it was just that a lot of people didn't understand. Thus, he had decided long ago to teach people about the existence of 'mythical creatures'.

He even ran his own blog site, where he got a small but steady income of money from the people that had become premium members of the site.

The Englishman picked a relatively new laptop from the coffee table, where it almost always sat. Arthur opened his manuscript with a sigh; it was already at sixty-seven pages. Not that much, he had to admit, but it was better than nothing.

The problem was, he had been putting the dreadful thing off. He wanted to write it, he really did, but he was having a little problem with writers block.

For an hour or two, he typed, read, reread and edited his manuscript, revising sentences, and fixing errors; but by the end of that, he found himself only two pages farther than when he had started. He stared at the computer for a few minutes, not being able to immediately produce any kind of ideas to continue, he decided to mull over it with some tea and biscuits.

Sighing once more, the Englishman saved the document, and placed the computer lightly on the table. Arthur strode over into the kitchen, rifling through some of the cabinets. Pulling out a fairly large jar, he plucked open the lid, and peered inside. "Blast…" he murmured. No tea. He sighed again, and replaced the lid, setting the jar down on the counter. Pulling out another jar, he glanced into it, hoping there to be at least one biscuit. A lonesome shortbread cookie sat at the bottom of the jar. Feeling pity for it, Arthur took it, and placed the now-empty jar onto the counter next to its brother.

The Englishman took a bite of the cookie, walking back out of the kitchen. These cookies were always too dry to eat alone, and they were always best with tea. He would have to run up to the store, but he needed to anyway, so there was no problem.

Arthur walked outside, pulling on his brown jacket, suddenly remembering something as he stared at the empty driveway. Francis had already taken the only car that they owned. The Englishman swiveled around on his foot, and walked back up the staircase and toward their apartment. However, he bypassed the shared apartment, sliding in front of the neighbor's door instead, and hesitated.

Honestly, Arthur disliked Antonio. He was infuriatingly laid-back and lazy. Probably another reason was that he was always over, talking with Francis. Both of them were way too touchy-feely. According to Francis, Antonio had actually been his best friend in high school along with another boy, and they had always been this intimate. That didn't change the fact that it bothered the Englishman. Especially after finding out that Antonio was also gay.

Slowly, Arthur reached out and reluctantly knocked on the Spaniard's door.

The handle clicked a little as it turned, and Arthur stepped back to make room for the door. Antonio's eyes met Arthur's and a little confusion flashed through them, eyebrows twitching downward. The next second, the Spaniard's face had returned to his normal, carefree smile. "Si? What is it?"

Arthur sighed, a little irritated at the man already, but tried to be polite and said, "May I ask a favor of you?"

"…¿Què es?"

"May I…" Arthur gritted his teeth, and lowered his voice, "…borrow your car?"

Antonio's eyebrows shot up in cool surprise, "…What for?"

"Francis has the car; I need to… go somewhere."

"…Where?"

"If you must know, I need to go to the store!" The Englishman snapped, losing his patience with all these questions.

Antonio smirked a little, but just nodded, "Si, you may borrow it. Just bring it back in one piece. ¿Me entiendes?" And with that, he disappeared into his house, going to get the keys.

Arthur nodded, giving a little sigh, a bit relieved Antonio actually agreed to something like this.

When Antonio returned, he held out the keys, dangling them on a finger, "Here." But as Arthur reached out to take them, Spain pulled them up out of the Englishman's reach, "But, you owe me," the Spaniard said with a smile. Scowling, Arthur snatched the keys out of Antonio's hand, "I'll return the car in a bit. Good day," he said curtly, turning away and leaving Antonio at his door.

Arthur was once again outside, and he scanned the parking lot for Antonio's car. He had forgotten to ask what it looked like in his annoyance, but he knew for a fact that the license plate was "TOMATOS". He remembered Francis laughing about it once, and how outrageous it was. Spaniards and their tomatoes; they even had a national festival for it. From what he had heard from Francis, it was quite disgusting.

As Arthur entered the farther end of the parking lot, he spotted it almost immediately. It was a shiny red car with silver wheels and crystal clear windows. Overall, it was very flashy; too flashy for Arthur's tastes, but Francis would probably like it. Arthur unlocked the door and slipped into the car, breathing in the smell of hot leather and, strangely, baked dough and cinnamon. What was Antonio doing in here? Eating churros?

The Englishman rolled his eyes, relaxing in the driver's seat. Other than the almost overwhelming smell of churros, Antonio took pretty good care of his car. The seats were clean; the paint wasn't scratched and looked fairly waxed, and the windows looked like they were washed every day. Arthur hated to admit it, but he was slightly impressed.

After turning the key and the ignition started, Arthur pulled out of the parking lot. The ride was smooth, and it was a nice change from his and his husband's car, which was small and blue and didn't always work well. Once, it even broke down. Not any fault of Arthur or Francis, though. Arthur liked to think that he was a pretty decent driver, and he knew Francis could drive well just from sitting in the car with him. Even when Francis was in one of his perverted moods, his eyes never left the road. He was thoughtful like that.

Arthur rotated the steering wheel as he turned left, cheeks a little hot from thinking about Francis. He could be mature and intelligent, when he wanted to be; which was never, as far as Arthur had seen. Of course, when he was judging wine, he probably acted mature. Then again, the Englishman wouldn't be surprised if he did flirt with every skirt (or, really, in Francis' case, skirt or pant) he saw.

Finally he reached the closest convenience store. It certainly wasn't the cheapest, or the cleanest; but it would do the job. All he needed was tea, biscuits, and some things for dinner. He was thinking a Yorkshire pudding would be good. It was filling and tasty; and not to mention the wonderful savory sauce that was poured on it.

Arthur combed the shelves until he found a tea he had wanted to try out; 'Bicester Leaf Tea'. It was new in this particular store, and Arthur was curious to see what it tasted like.

Ingredients for dinner were next.

Arthur needed eggs. There was a single egg at the apartment, sitting all by its lonesome in a little carton and was definitely not enough for Yorkshire pudding; that required four. The Englishman drifted over to the store coolers, and pulled out a half dozen pack, and quickly checked them to make sure they weren't broken.

Next was milk. Arthur was sure Francis must've used up the last of it on that soup the previous day, and he didn't want to return home to discover that they didn't have any. Honestly, he didn't particularly like the milk here; it had a slightly funny taste, like it was left in the carton too long. Arthur wasn't that picky though, and he was sure milk was milk, and his Yorkshire pudding wouldn't be ruined by a little carton-tasting dairy.

Flour, salt and vegetable oil; now Arthur knew they had those. Slowly, Arthur carried the quart of milk, the half dozen of eggs, and the bag of tea to the counter.

A cheerful-looking man stood behind the counter, and he greeted Arthur as the Englishman walked up to the cashier, "A-naa~ welcome~ how may I help you today?"

Cracking a small smile, Arthur just gave a polite response, "Just buying a couple items today, thank you."

The cashier smiled brightly, and glanced at the items before tapping some buttons on a calculator that, apparently, was bolted into the checkout station. "Um, is this all?" the brown haired, brown eyed man said, with a little tilt of his head.

"Yes," Arthur replied smoothly.

"Hm, it'll be five pounds and twenty-nine pence."

That was pretty reasonable. Arthur pulled out his small coin purse, pulling out a five pound note and fifty pence piece. "There you go, fifty p'," he said, dropping the money into the cashier's hand. The man behind the counter gave Arthur his change, and Arthur left.

For a moment, the Englishman wasn't sure where his car was, and then he remembered he had borrowed Antonio's, quickly striding over to it. Slipping into the bright red car, Arthur sighed a little, placing the groceries in the passenger's seat.

Arthur drove the vehicle back to the apartment complex, parking it in its usual place – in a slot under the relentless shade of the apartment complex. Antonio probably liked that spot because the cars red paint wouldn't fade as quickly.

The Englishman grabbed his groceries and headed up to his apartment. Arthur passed Antonio's front door, gritting his teeth at the memory at the Spaniards parting words, 'But, you owe me.' Who did he think he was? That bloody wanker…

Not feeling in the mood to talk to Antonio again, Arthur unlocked the front door with a crisp click, marching in. He dropped the groceries on the kitchen counter, and pulled off his brown jacket. Quietly, Arthur draped it over the back of the dining room chair he usually sat at, and returned to the dinner he was suppose to be making that night.

Arthur glanced at the clock. It was only about 10:30; it was probably best to start now.

The Englishman set to work. After washing his hands, he pulled out all the necessary utensils; mixing bowls, a large rectangular roasting pan, three measuring cups, and a strainer. He unloaded the recently bought ingredients onto the counter; he rummaged through the cupboards until he found flour and vegetable oil. The salt he collected from the kitchen table.

The recipe Arthur had was for six people, and that was far too many. So, Arthur decided to cut the recipe in half. The first thing the recipe called for was to measure out the eggs. Four eggs it said, so Arthur cracked the first egg in the measuring cup with no problems. The second, though, he must've begun to crack it with some added vigor, because the egg crushed slightly in his hands, and some of the shell slipped into the measuring cup with the whites and the broken yolk. The little pieces of shell settled at the bottom of the measuring cup, and Arthur sighed, looking at it for a moment. No one would notice if he left them in there… he didn't want to undergo trying to fish those little pieces out… He could just leave them there, yes, of course Francis wouldn't notice, it would be consumed and no one would notice. It was fine.

So Arthur tossed out the rest of the shells, and washed his hands of the whites. If Francis was here, he would've surely made some perverted joke about it.

Arthur returned to his meal. He pulled the other measuring cup over next to the one with the eggs, and poured out an amount of milk equal to the amount of eggs. With the third measuring cup, he did the same with the flour.

As he didn't need any more eggs or milk than he already had, he put them into the fridge.

The measured out eggs and milk were dumped into his large metal mixing bowl, and he stirred them a bit, before reaching over for the salt, and looking at the recipe. It said a pinch of salt, but Arthur figured he could just do a little bit more than a pinch. A pinch just didn't seem enough. So, the Englishman took the salt shaker and turned it upside down over the mixing bowl for a couple seconds, before setting it at the dining table once more.

Following more mindless stirring, it was time to put in the flour. Arthur took the strainer, and with a puff of powdery smoke, poured the flour into it. Though, he forgot to put it over the mixing bowl before he did, and about a sixth of the initial amount of flour sieved though the porous mesh and made a mess of his brown pants, and the edge of the counter nearest him. Arthur cursed silently under his breath, now he would have to change his pants to hide the evidence, or Francis would tease him about his cooking skills. Arthur sifted the rest of the floor into the bowl, but ended up spilling some anyway. So, as it looked like the amount he had in the bowl wouldn't be enough, Arthur dumped some more flour in the bowl, eyeballing it. Okay, maybe it wasn't perfect, but that was good enough, right?

Arthur stirred for a while, possibly about ten minutes; the batter turning smooth and creamy. Though, it did seem a little thick and lumpy in places, but it was supposed to look like that, right? Now it was time to let the batter sit in the refrigerator for a couple hours, so the Englishman had some time to kill. Most of it was probably going to be spent cleaning up the kitchen, and himself.

The Englishman placed the bowl in the fridge, covered by a bit of cellophane.

Wetting a cloth, Arthur wiped down the counter of flour, and then proceeded to do the same for the floor. When he tried to brush off the flour from his pants, it only smeared and made his situation worse. Sighing a little bit, Arthur placed the flour back in the cupboard, and put the three measuring cups into the sink; he would wash them once he changed his pants.

Slipping into the back bedroom, Arthur opened the drawer of the shared dresser, and flipped through the clothes. Scowling down at the contents, he realized none of the other pants in there were even remotely brown. So Arthur slipped out of his soiled pants, and tossed them in the laundry bin. The Englishman felt a sudden chill, remembering that it _was_ November, and that it was probably only going to get colder here on out. So after slithering into a pair of dark beige slacks, Arthur rummaged through a lower drawer, finding a green knitted sweater vest. Francis always complained about it, but to be honest, the Englishman quite liked it; liked it so much, in fact, that it was his favorite.

Arthur walked back out into the living room, and glanced at his computer. He didn't really want to do anymore writing today. Maybe he'd check up on his website.

Plopping down on the couch, he pulled his laptop toward him, and opened it slowly, pressing the power button. It loaded up quickly and quietly, like always. The computer wasn't state of the art, but it wasn't slow either. And Francis didn't use it at all, so he had it all to himself usually.

Arthur opened MochiN, an internet browser that was made by an acquaintance of his, Eduard von Bock. He typed in the name of the site in the search bar, '**DoYouBelieveInFairies**'.

Arthur logged onto the site under his username, '**FlyingMintBunny**'; though most people on the site referred to him as FMB, or Mint. The man quickly glanced over his ever-full notification box, deleting some of the spam but mostly answering the questions of many people around the world. Usually they inquired about if he had ever seen them, or if they would ever see them in their area, and sometimes even how to deal with their friends or family members that bullied them about believing in such things as fairies. Arthur understood these things very well, and answered them honestly; especially the bit about family. The Englishman had four brothers, all older except for one, Peter, who back-talked him anyway. Mostly all of his older siblings had tormented him since the day he was born, and he had fundamentally disowned them when he was old enough to move out of the house.

Arthur shook his head, getting the thought of his no-good brothers out of his head. He was glad Francis had never met them. His oldest brother was the scariest, but he practically oozed pheromones, and Francis would've been all over him if the two ever met.

Speak of the devil. Well, one of them. Peter had sent him a notification through DYBIF's website. Arthur knew it was Peter right away, because of his username, '**Iamaman**'. Rolling his eyes, the Englishman clicked on the note, and read it, cringing:

_hey thar JARK ARHTUR_

_i bet u don't even know who this is hehee_

_well ill see you later JEKR ARHUTR :DD_

_pS IO AM AMAN!_

Arthur closed it, not feeling like replying. It was like no one had ever taught him English…

The Englishman then proceeded to look through all the forums that had been recently posted in, and noticed, '**Iamaman**' had spammed in every one of them. Mostly poorly written posts about being a man, or how mythical creatures were real and everyone who didn't think that was stupid. Sometimes Arthur was embarrassed to even call the boy his brother. Now he really would have to private message Peter. Many of the posts, Arthur flagged as spam, but some he just left. They were close enough to the topic to be considered legitimate.

Opening up a 'Compose Note' page, Arthur typed out the following message to '**Iamaman**':

_Iamaman –_

_If you continue to spam the forums with posts unrelated to the topic, I will have to ban you from this website. Please understand many people here are serious about what they are talking about, and you are only irritating them with your nonsense. _

_Thank you for your cooperation. – FlyingMintBunny_

Sent.

Arthur sighed, and glanced at his computer clock, noting it was about three o'clock. It was about time to cook the Pudding. Setting the laptop on the coffee table, Arthur strolled over to the kitchen, opening the fridge, and retrieving the mixing bowl that still held the yet-to-be-baked batter. The Englishman stripped off its plastic covering and disposed of it in the same bin he had earlier scrapped the egg shells in. Pulling over the large roasting pan, Arthur hesitated. There really wasn't enough batter for this whole thing. So, instead, Arthur searched through the cabinets until he found a smallish, square, porcelain bowl. It was perfect.

Arthur poured the contents of the mixing bowl into the porcelain one, scrapping the residue out with a spoon, making sure none of the mixture was wasted.

Swiftly, Arthur put the porcelain pot into the oven. They had a timer, but Arthur felt like he didn't need one, and it was only ten minutes. He could watch the clock.

So he cranked up the oven to 230°C, and wandered back into the living room, plunking down on the couch with sudden exhaustion. It was kind of a busy day for Arthur. He sighed, and closed his computer after noticing he had gotten three more messages, all with the title, '**JHERK ARHETR**'. He could deal with those later.

Arthur picked up a book on the coffee table, and leaned back on the couch. It had been a while since he had picked up a book, with the manuscript and Francis and everything. Curling up, the Englishman let his imagination run wild as he dove into the novel.

* * *

><p>Ah, I'm sorry it took so long for this one. But it is significantly longer than the other ones.<br>Also, rejoice! I have found out the way to put lines in such as this one!

Let's see... The cashier man, the "A-naa~" he says is a verbal tic of his. Kudo points if you know who he is.

I had a lot of fun writing this chapter, I hope you enjoy it too!


	4. Gormless Kip

Um, I did rate it T for teens, and most teens know many varieties of curse words, but, uh, just in case?

WARNING for language, which is most coming out of England's mouth.

* * *

><p>With an almost equal amount of precision and grace to a swan landing on a lake, a small blue car promptly pulled into the apartment complex's parking lot. It wasn't a very nice car, not something you'd expect Francis to drive at the very least. The front bumper was beginning to sag, and there was a dent in the roof from who-knows-what, but what could you expect from a couple hundred dollar vehicle? It was small and dinky; there's not much more to say.<p>

Francis exited the car with his usual poise, brushing off his shirt and slamming the car door. It wasn't an angry slam though; it was a habit he had picked up, since the doors didn't always close properly. Francis had to admit, he didn't much like the car; it wasn't classy enough for him. In fact, the only thing that would make it at least a little sexy was if he himself was sitting on the roof of the car, wearing nothing but his rose petal Speedo.

Maybe later. He was sure if he did it now, it would force Arthur to leave the country without him. Francis didn't feel much like losing his job to something like that, either.

Earlier that day he had seen a young boy, maybe about seventeen or so, full of piss and vigor, and it made him remember the early days. As Francis locked the car doors, he reminisced on his adolescence. Before he had figured out what he wanted to do in life, (and this was all way before he had met Arthur) Francis was a sort of rebel child. His father was an alcoholic, and his mother worked herself to the bone to pay the bills. He grew up in what was basically a slum, and normally tried to stay out of the house as much as possible.

His childhood was not a happy one.

When Francis turned fifteen, he joined a cause; it's funny, he can't even recall what it was for. But, he had joined it, and protested regularly about something-or-other. Once he even streaked across the Prime Minister's lawn.

Francis chuckled, remembering the scene. He had been locked up for a while for that; mostly because he couldn't pay the fine.

Thankfully he had cleaned himself up for the most part when he had met Arthur. By then he had figured out that he actually wanted to do something with his life, and all the shenanigans he had gotten tangled up in just slowed him down.

Francis climbed the stairs to the apartment, noticing Antonio open his door just as he reached the top step on their floor.

"Hola," the Spaniard greeted casually, leaning against his doorframe, "If you happen to see el Britanico pequeno, tell him to return my car keys, por favor."

Giving a little grin at the nickname Antonio always used for Arthur, Francis nodded, "Oui, I will try."

Francis turned back to his door, opened it, and walked in. The first thing that he noticed was Arthur, lying on the couch, out like a light. A book laid face-down on his husband's chest, and his arms were draped limply over his stomach.

Francis just stared at his lover for a moment, taking in just everything about Arthur. Thank god they had met. It was true that he probably could've made it out of the situation he was in without Arthur, but he was irreplaceable, even if he was insanely vulgar. He had given the Frenchman so many fond memories. Honestly, Arthur made life fun.

Francis exhaled, looking away from his husband, placing his bag on the chair next to the door, which already had said man's bag on it from the previous day.

The Frenchman slipped over toward his spouse, picking up the book, and examining it before closing it and placing it on the coffee table. Some of the pages were crinkled, but it looked fine. Arthur shifted slightly in his sleep, eyebrows twitching downwards.

Francis watched the eyebrows for a moment, and was unable to resist the chance to mess with Arthur. Also, he wanted to touch those eyebrows at least once. He couldn't help himself; those things were huge, almost as wide as the width of his thumb.

Crouching down, Francis smirked, and ran a finger along one of the caterpillars on the Briton's face. Again, Arthur's face twitched, a small frown forming on his face. On the other hand, Francis' grin grew wider and more sinister. He was quite enjoying this. Francis repeated the action once more, getting a similar reaction from Arthur. The light sleeper opened an eye, confused frown on his face at what had been touching his face. When Francis' guilty but overall amused face came into view, the Englishman nearly punched him.

A blush swept across his face like wildfire, and Arthur slapped a hand over his eyebrows. "What, what were you doing?" he demanded. Francis flashed his husband a sly smirk, "Just admiring zhese furry zhings on your face, mon cher~" Arthur shot him a glare, "Are you suggesting that there is something wrong with my eyebrows?"

"Non, but you should try waxing zhem," Francis teased, his eyes flickering with mischievous humor. "I will _not_ wax my eyebrows, you frog, so you can just buzz off about it!" Francis smirked, and they went on bickering for a couple more minutes.

Finally, when Francis decided he had had his fill of messing with the Brit, he stood up, retracting and moving over to the kitchen. Maybe he could sneak a peek at what _thing_ he would have to brace himself for. Francis swung around the corner, only to be met with a chilling scene. Flickering yellow and orange lights danced on the interior of the stove, the fire licking up all the oxygen and almost pleaded to be let out for more. Francis rushed over to it, foolishly pulling open the stove door. Red hot flames spat out at Francis and the Frenchman threw up an arm to shield his face. He was almost too late. The fire lapped at his shirt and arm, scorching his skin and clothes.

Francis stumbled backward with a loud curse, shaking his arm furiously. The fire burning his formerly marvelous pink dress shirt went out after much flailing.

Arthur ran in a moment later in a cold sweat, the fire alarm screeching overhead. "Bloody hell!" he yelled, and dashed to a cabinet near the fridge, yanking it open.

Jerking out the fire extinguisher, the Englishman pulled the pin, spun around toward the fire, aimed, and wrenched the lever down.

Foamy sodium bicarbonate blasted out of the nozzle at the flaming stove, putting out the small fire quickly. However, with Arthur's poor and panicked aim, the whole countertop was quickly covered in the white, fluffy substance.

After all trace of fire had been smothered out, the Englishman let out a shaky sigh, collapsing beside Francis, and dropping the empty fire extinguisher with shaky hands. Both of them were lost for words for a moment, the experience knocking the breath out of their lungs.

As Arthur began to get his breath back again, relief flooded through him. Bloody fucking bollocks, that was stupid. What a cock-up that had been. With a dry smile, Arthur reflected; at least they were alive, that was a plus, and…

"Are you okay?" Arthur asked quickly, remembering his husband had caught fire earlier. The Englishman's eyes darted to Francis' damaged shirt, then to his face into his blue eyes. Francis gave a weary sigh, examining the hole in his shirt. "Oui, I zhink I am… zhough, my shirt is ruined…" Smiling slyly over at Arthur, he inched closer, and simply leaned shoulder to shoulder with the Brit.

Arthur exhaled, still shaking slightly. Thank goodness. The Englishman mimicked his husband, and fell into the lean; his heart hammering like he had just ran a marathon.

"You were very 'eroic back zhere," he hummed teasingly, closing his eyes.

Arthur's lips twitched in a smile, but he still felt a little sick from all the excitement, and just let it fade.

"Sorry."

Francis said nothing for a moment, before sighing again, "It is alright."

"It's… not. I was incredibly inattentive."

"Shush now," Francis said, frowning. "We are all fine, are we not?"

"Yes, but…"

"Non," Francis replied, as if completely dismissing the conversation into oblivion. "Now, let's clean all zhis up." Francis leaned forward, pushing himself off the ground, and turned, holding out a hand to Arthur.

"I didn't know you 'ad so much in you mon cher~" Francis gave a smirk, eyes glittering with a mischievous air as he gestured at the mounds of white with his other hand.

"Wha—Oh," a little blush spread across Arthurs face as he scowled at the stupid perverted joke that was so predictable of Francis. "Surely you can do better than that," Arthur growled, and the Frenchman only gave a grin. The Englishman snatched at his husband's hand, and pulled himself back onto his feet.

"Alright," Arthur sighed, looking around the kitchen, "Oh…"

"Oui?"

"What about dinner?"

"We will do somezhing about zhat later."

Arthur gave a little nod, and they turned back to the mess. The two glanced over the countertops, the open oven, the fridge, the stovetop, the floor; all coated in a fluffy, white, snow-like scene. The air hung thin with smoke, but the two didn't seem to notice, and if they did, they didn't care in the slightest. It wasn't like they could open a window anyway; they didn't even have one.

Arthur was the first to move over to a kitchen drawer, pulling it open and taking a couple rags out. He tossed one to Francis. Then, he pushed himself up, and took his own washcloth, wetted it under some running water, and began to scrub the counter and sink. Francis joined him not a moment later.

About an hour later, the two men had finished cleaning up most of the mess, except for the oven. They had decided to work on that last.

Arthur pulled the utterly ruined Yorkshire Pudding out of the oven, mourning what would've been a good dinner. Francis, however, was secretly relieved that he wouldn't have to eat the monstrosity Arthur had probably made. English food was an acquired taste already, but when Arthur made it; God help you.

Of course, Francis didn't say any of this. It was a bit of a sore subject for the Brit.

Placing the long-dead meal on the counter, Arthur glanced into the oven. Even though most of it was covered in a white film, which was starting to harden after so long, the Englishman could tell the poor appliance had suffered some damage. Arthur saturated his towel for what seemed the hundredth time, and got to work.

Parts of the inside were slightly melted, but nothing as serious as to prevent them from using it again. Arthur kind of hoped they could just _not _tell the landlord. He was… nice, but his face was just so intimidating. Francis usually tried to avoid him as much as possible, the coward. Of course, this wasn't quite an option. They'd have to explain the stove damage one day anyway, it was best to do it now.

The oven was dazzling clean now, besides the slightly blackened parts Arthur couldn't seem to clean with just a wet cloth.

Francis sat at the dining room table, watching Arthur work from behind, not allowed to clean anymore. He had been banished from the kitchen after trying to grab Arthur from behind and bite his ears.

The Yorkshire Pudding was now living in the trash, and it wasn't going anywhere until the next trash day.

"Well, it looks like we're done," Arthur said, coming out to join Francis. The Frenchman had changed into a maroon dress shirt while his husband was cleaning. "If only you were in a maid outfit…" Francis sighed, shaking his head dramatically, "Such a shame."

Arthur decided to ignore that comment, and set himself down at the table. "So, you're okay?"

"Oui, oui… I am fin—" Francis began, but stopped, flinched, and quickly grabbed his injured arm. Arthur bolted up, alarmed, and ran over to Francis. "Give me your arm, quickly, let me see," said the Briton urgently. "Non, I am fine, m—"

"Just give me your arm, damn it!"

Francis was a bit surprised at Arthur's extremely agitated tone, and obediently offered his arm. Arthur unbuttoned the cuffs of Francis' shirt, and rolled up the sleeve. The Brit expected to see some sort of bad burn, or blood, or any kind of abrasion to the skin, but there was nothing. He was thoroughly confused.

Francis had meant to tease Arthur a bit more, but when the Frenchman had seen the seriousness in his husbands face, and the sincerity in his worry, Francis had lost all his motivation.

Francis leaned forward and grabbed Arthur in a hug, pulling the Englishman in tight. "Wha—?" Arthur said, blush spreading across his face. "Désolé, désolé…" Francis murmured with a heartfelt smile, "I am perfectly fine."

"Then…!" Arthur began crossly, but then stopped, and let himself relax a bit. Giving a little sigh, Arthur wrapped his arms around Francis. "I'm glad you're okay," the Englishman said softly.

"Merci, ma belle," Francis hummed in reply. "It is fortunate none of us were 'armed."

For the next few moments, they just held themselves in each other's arms, until Arthur finally pulled away, "A-anyway," he muttered, looking down at the ground so he didn't have to meet Francis eye-to-eye, "Let's get something to eat. I'm ravished."

"Oui, let's see what we 'ave in the fridge," Francis said with a little smile, giving Arthur a peck on the forehead before withdrawing completely and moving into the kitchen to open the fridge.

"We 'ave left over soup…"

"Alright, that sounds good," Arthur said, plopping down into a kitchen chair, and letting himself unwind. This day had been a lot more exciting than he was used to. "Oh, wait, hold on,"

Francis paused before pulling the leftovers out of the refrigerator, "Oui?"

"We need to call the landlord first…"

"Zhe… Zhe landlord… but…" Francis said a little dismayed.

"We have to. We rent this apartment, so we have to report any, uh, problems."

"…Zhen _you_ talk to 'im."

"You pansy."

"I… I am not a pansy."

Arthur and Francis just stared at each other for a moment, before Arthur just silently got up, and walked over to the phone. With just a few numbers, the phone began to ring.

After the second ring, someone finally picked up.

"Yes?"

"This is Arthur Kirkland from Room 29, we've had a… small house fire but we extinguished it, and we just would appreciate it if you could tell us how much we have to pay you in reimbursement."

"Ah house f're?" A small pause, where there was a little background chatter, then "I'll be up 'n ah m'ment."

"Oh, you don't have to co—" Arthur started, but the landlord had already hung up. Arthur paused, then sighed, and replaced the receiver. "He'll be here soon," the Brit informed his husband.

Francis scratched his head uneasily, sighing, "Oui… alright."

Not five minutes later, there was a soft knock on the door. Arthur answered it quickly, and let a tall, slightly flushed man inside. He seemed a little out of breath as he pushed up his glasses. "That was… fast. Did… you run…? You really didn't have to…" Arthur mumbled as the landlord entered the house, his blue-green eyes sweeping over the room quickly. Francis was standing in the archway between the dining room and the living room, but swiftly moved out of the way as the landlord walked up to him.

The landlord made his way to the kitchen, crouched down, and examined the inside of the stove. "How much do you think this'll cost us?" Arthur asked, joining Francis as they moved to stand just inside the doorway to the kitchen.

After a short-but-seemingly-long patch of silence, the landlord said curtly in his thick accent, "M'ybe ab't f've hundr'd doll'rs…"

Francis clicked his tongue; there goes buying a new shirt to replace his burnt one. He only bought the best; to appear fabulous, one must spend fabulously.

Arthur ignored him and continued, "Do you want us to buy it, or would you like the money for it?"

"If ya' could, I would r'ther ya' buy it ya'selves."

The Brit nodded, and thanked the landlord for his time, apologizing for the oven.

And with that, the landlord was gone. He seemed to slip out of the apartment so swiftly that Francis could've sworn he was late for something. A date, perhaps?

But that didn't matter now. Francis turned back to Arthur, and they both let out a breath that they hadn't known they had been holding in. The tension in the room appeared to have followed the landlord out, because the next second, Francis had drifted over to Arthur, giving him a little peck.

"Soup now, oui?"

"Yes," Arthur said, a little disgruntled, but they both knew he was inwardly happy.

Francis moved back into the kitchen with grace. Arthur made his way over to the table, and not a moment after he had sat down, he stood up again. He should probably try to help somehow, to repent for today.

The Briton followed his feet into the kitchen, where Francis was standing over the stove, swirling the leftover soup in a pot as it heated up.

"Uh, can I help with anything?" Arthur said timidly; it didn't look like there was much to do.

Francis glanced over at him before taking a quick look around the kitchen, "Non, zhere isn't really anyzhing." He smirked, and said with a cheerfulness that could only mean he planned on doing something Arthur wouldn't like, "Alzhough… Come over 'ere."

There was something about Francis' smirk that made Arthur uneasy. "No, why?" was all he could get out, giving his husband a look of distrust.

"Oh, but mon cher~" Francis purred, shooting back a completely different look at Arthur.

Arthur frowned and ignored him, and continued on a little more irritated than before, "So, there isn't anything for me to do?"

Francis gave a pouting look, "Well, non,"

"Okay, fine." Arthur cut him off before he could continue his sentence and walked out of the kitchen before Francis could start any more shenanigans.

Not a moment later, though, Arthur was back in the kitchen, getting out silverware and bowls. "I might as well set the table," he offered the explanation in self defense, as not to be mocked. He quickly left the kitchen, leaving Francis all by himself in the small room.

After dinner, Arthur and Francis cleaned up, and eventually joined each other in the bedroom. "We should probably get to bed early," Arthur said, indicating that Francis should try and keep his frisky nature to himself tonight. "We have to get up in the morning, early mind you, for the appointment with Kiku."

Francis gave a little frown of discontent, "Oui, oui…" he sighed dramatically, but the effect was lost, due to the fact that he was buttoning up his pajamas.

Arthur slipped into his usual night outfit too, and climbed into bed. Soon after, Francis joined him. As always, Arthur found himself in the grip of Francis' long arms, although today seemed a little different. Instead of any usual teasing or hugging or fighting, Francis was completely silent. Arthur turned in the Frenchman's grasp, and looked over at him.

"…What's wrong?" Arthur asked.

Francis didn't reply, just watched Arthur for a while.

Finally, Arthur broke the silence, asking a slightly different question, "…Are you nervous?"

Francis gave a little grin, "A little," he admitted.

Arthur was surprised, but then, he wasn't. This was kind of a big thing for Francis. And although this was perfect information to poke fun at Francis, now wasn't really the time.

"More like, I zhink, strangely curious as to 'ow zhis is suppose to work…" Francis murmured, breaking Arthur's train of thought.

"Oh, yes. Yes, I was wondering that too. But I'm sure Kiku will give us the details when we arrive there tomorrow. So, not to worry."

Francis' smile broadened slightly and he gave Arthur a little peck.

"Alright zhen, bonne nuit, mon chéri."

* * *

><p>Ahh... I'm sorry it's so late! I've been busy with work and vacation and worse of all, my computer catching a virus. Gotta go get that fixed. In the meantime though, I have all the chapters on a pendrive, and I will be working on the next one diligently. Hopefully I'll get it together sooner.<p>

Thank you, all the readers who have stuck with me for so long (it hasn't really been that long, but thank you for putting up with my delay) and thank you to the new readers, who leave favorites and reviews that keep me going!


	5. Familiar Face

I apologize this is so incredibly late! v.v School started up again and has been keeping me quite busy! :c

Also!

WARNING: "Nastiness" as my beta says. I mean, if you're reading a yaoi fanfiction (a FrUk one, no less) you probably can handle implications like this, but I'd thought I'd warn you in advance. Also, this will probably be the "nastiest" part in the whole series, so don't worry about this kind of stuff in the future.

* * *

><p>It was a chilling 3°C outside that morning and if Arthur hadn't been so tightly wrapped in Francis' arms, he might've been cold.<p>

The Briton opened his eyes, exhaling through his nose. At some point in the night, he must've turned over, because he noticed he was facing away from Francis, which was not the way he had fallen asleep. He was sure of that fact.

Arthur laid there for a silent minute, watching the unmoving wall. Was this really going to work? Were they really ready for a commitment like this? Getting married was one thing, but kids were a completely different story. And they wouldn't just be adopted either. It would be Francis' and Arthur's own flesh and blood… Somehow.

Arthur suddenly felt a wave of warm air rush over his neck, sending goose bumps down his back and over his arms. He was soon released from his husband's grip. Behind him, Francis was giving an enormous yawn, most unfitting of a suave man like himself.

Now that he could actually get up off the bed, Arthur pushed himself to a sitting position and stretched.

A hand curled around his waist and tried to pull him back down.

"Come back and lay with me, chéri," Francis murmured sleepily, "It's still early."

Arthur glanced at the clock; Francis was right, it was early. The offer was tempting, in view of the fact that that as soon as he was upright, he was slapped with a douse of chilling air; but it was no good caving-in to this lewd man's invitation. If he fell asleep again, he may not wake up in time.

Soundlessly, Arthur relinquished himself from his spouse's arm, scooting to the end of the bed before pushing himself onto his feet.

Arthur wasn't particularly muscular, and was fairly skinny, but probably the best word to describe him would be fit. And in this state, the cold morning air chilled him quickly.

The Briton had no choice but to change into something warmer, like a pair of straight-leg, bistre slacks and a green argyle sweater over a beige dress shirt. He glanced back toward the bed where Francis was asleep once again. Deciding to leave him be for now, Arthur made his way out of the bedroom and into the kitchen.

A thought crossed his mind about maybe making muffins this morning, but the thought was promptly dashed as he caught sight of the oven, recalling the events of the previous day. Scowling at himself, he riffled through the cabinets and fridge, not finding anything that he remotely felt like eating. Although…

Arthur turned back toward a jar full of tea bags resting upon the counter. Some tea wouldn't be so bad, and it wouldn't be so hard to make. Hopefully the stove still worked after yesterday's fiasco. Arthur pulled out the kettle from a lower cabinet under the counter, filling it with water and setting it on one of the burners. After turning the knob of the back-left burner, he waited to see if the burner got hot, putting a hand close to it. It didn't. He frowned slightly, and pulled the kettle up from the burner, and gave it a hearty but swift thump with the palm of his hand. Putting the kettle back in its place, he waited a little longer. Finally, the stove's spiral burner pattern slowly got a brighter and then even brighter red. Arthur smirked to himself, and pulled out a plain white teacup and saucer, with which he sat down on the counter directly adjacent to the stovetop.

As he waited for the water to heat, he wandered into the living room, picking up a bookmark off the ground from the previous evening and setting it soundlessly on the table. The Brit took up the book the bookmark belonged to; he had lost his page from the other night, but he might as well try to find it and if he had time, maybe read a little bit. He quickly and easily flipped through the pages, finding parts that he recognized, until he stumbled upon a part he didn't remember so well. Best to start here.

Arthur let his eyes roll over the words printed finely on the paper, his mind caressing and examining the words, the storyline. It was all over too quickly, though, as the kettle in the kitchen let out its usual shrill shriek. Arthur put the book down, bookmark in its rightful place this time, and allowed his mind to snap back to reality as his feet transmitted him back to the source of the screeching.

Arthur plucked the kettle off the burner with one hand, and with the other turned the dial until it gave a click. He poured the water gently into the teacup, set down the kettle, next dipping the little bag of leaves into the hot bath and letting it steep.

"Still trying to burn zhe kitchen down?" came a voice from the kitchen door.

Arthur spun around on his heel, facing Francis indignantly. "Oh, naff off about that! I already said I was sorry!" He then promptly turned back to his cup of tea, watching the teabag for a moment. He needed… milk, yes. Behind him, Arthur heard the fridge being opened, and turned to see his husband pulling out the last of the loaf of bread, and some jam. Arthur bent in, nabbing up the quart of milk before Francis could do anything stupid.

Each preparing his own breakfast, they lightly chatted.

"I thought you wanted to go back to sleep."

"It was cold."

"You had the blankets, didn't you?"

"Oui, but, I did not have mon petite lapin next to me."

Arthur's eyebrow twitched in slight annoyance; Francis hadn't called him that in ages. He always hated that nickname, and it had been so long Arthur hoped that maybe he had forgotten it, but apparently not; out of all the stupid little things Francis called him, that was the worst.

Breakfast was soon over, and Arthur cleaned up the dishes this time.

"Arzhur, do you still 'ave Antonio's keys?" Francis asked suddenly, remembering as he twisted a blue scarf around his neck.

"Oh, right, I do," the Brit replied, rummaging through his brown jacket pockets then tossing them over to his husband. They gathered up the rest of their things, and walked out the door.

"I'll be right back, you 'ead to zhe car," Francis said, giving a little nonchalant wave as he headed toward their neighbor's door. Arthur nodded, and did as he was told. And even though he knew Francis would never cheat on him (other than flirting, but he didn't consider that cheating, that was just Francis' way of greeting people), he had confidence in that at least, he still didn't like the idea of other people 'touching his man' as the sitcoms put it.

Arthur sat in the cramped car, silently waiting. Three minutes, five minutes, ten minutes? How long had he been sitting here?

Francis finally appeared, walking out of the apartment complex onto the sidewalk, his blue scarf fluttering slightly as he walked through the chilled air, hands in pockets. When he opened the passenger door, Arthur frowned at him. "You sure took your sweet time."

"I wasn't zhat long was I?"

"It was long enough."

Francis gave chuckle, leaning a bit closer to Arthur, "What? Did you miss me?"

Arthur blushed indignantly, "Of course not, you wanker. I just got bloody tired of waiting!" And he turned away quickly, starting up the car.

"Do you even know where we're going?"

"Of course I do," the Briton said disdainfully, "I pass the facility sometimes on my way out to London. I just never realized it was Kiku's work. It's a little less than an hour, I think."

Francis laid back in his chair, "After zhis I'll 'ave to go straight to zhe wine convention, so you won't 'ave time to go 'ome or anyzhing."

"That's quite alright, I'll just taste some wines until you finish."

"Try not to get drunk, mon chéri."

"Drunk?! I don't get drunk, _you_ on the other hand… I'll be the one driving home. I'm surprised you don't get pulled over all the time for drunk driving!"

"Zhat shows 'ow little you know! It's not drunk driving if you are only drinking wine!"

"You prat, it absolutely is."

The rest of the trip passed with this kind of witty banter, until they, at last, had reached Kiku's laboratory.

It was a large, plain white building surrounded by a fairly high metal fence. There was only one entryway that Arthur could see, a white paved drive up to a couple of traffic cones, and to the right of that, a little house that looked more like a large white box with windows. Arthur drove up, stopping before he ran over the orange cones. A guard was sitting in the little house, staring at them as if she was waiting for some identification. Slowly, she came out to the car when nothing happened, and looked in the window with a grin.

With a jolt, Arthur realized this wasn't a girl at all.

"Feliks?"

"Omigawd! You, like, totally remember me! What a coinkidink! I gotta, like, totally text Liet later, omigawd."

This was Feliks, the blonde-haired, green-eyed professional transvestite that had met Francis and Arthur when the first started dating. "Liet" was Feliks best friend, Toris (most people weren't sure if they were dating or just friends; Arthur and Francis were in that majority). No one knew how "Toris" became "Liet" but that's how it was, and Feliks would call him nothing else.

"So, like, how have to two been?" Feliks prattled on, "Like, are you here to get some kids or what?"

Arthur blushed, and immediately replied, "No!" Whilst behind him, Francis responded with a cool, "Oui," at the same time.

Feliks snickered, and glanced over at Francis, "You, like, totally need some major help with this one."

Francis grinned back, "Oui, 'e is quite troublesome."

Arthur whipped around to glare at Francis, but he just ignored it. Feliks walked over to the cones, moving them out of the way before he came back to the car and winked at Francis. "If you like, ever get bored of eyebrows over here; let's go to a strip bar. I'll, like, dress you up so pretty. Like, bring that Spaniard and that, like, German guy if you can."

Francis smirked, "Oui, zhat sounds wonderful, I'll be sure to consider it."

Feliks gave a giggle and walked back to his guard station, his miniskirt flowing up in the wind a bit as he opened the door.

Arthur frowned and put his foot to the gas, travelling down the white paved road to a parking lot. He parked it quickly, and got out, still a bit mad at Francis for all that. Francis followed his out, and swiftly caught up with Arthur as he walked to the front doors at a brisk pace. The Frenchman snagged his husbands hand, smirking as the other tried to pry himself free immediately upon awareness. But Francis was not letting go.

The Englishman continued to struggle with his spouse until they reached the double doors of the building, where he, without delay, kicked Francis in the leg. Francis rapidly let go, flinching as he stepped back.

Arthur, face held in cross expression, walked inside the facility.

The mixed smell of cleaning materials and hospital instantaneously hit his nose. The floors were covered in pretty light blue tiles, not one of the tiles cracked or showing any signs of mold or dirt. The walls were the same powder blue, and looked as if no one had ever even touched them. A woman, and it was a woman this time, stood behind a shiny mahogany counter, greeting them with a perfect saleswoman-smile.

"Hello, how may I help you today?" she asked generically.

"Uh," Arthur said after a moment, stunned by the cleanliness of the place, "uh, we're here for, uh," he blushed, unsure how to approach this. Francis came up behind him, but immediately passed him, going up to the woman with a charming smile. "What is a beautiful lady doing in a place such as zhis?"

Arthur frowned and walked up next to him, "We're here to see Kiku Honda," he said shortly, hoping she would get what he meant. The whole time, the woman's generalness and sales smile never even faded.

"This way please," she said pleasantly.

Arthur and Francis followed the woman out of the reception area, leading them down a maze of hallways until they reached a door. "Mr. Honda should be right in here. From there, he will explain everything." And with that, she left.

Arthur looked over at Francis, who was messing with his wedding band. It seemed he was nervous too. The Englishman gave the door a brisk rapping with his knuckles.

"Come in," came the voice of the Japanese man.

Arthur opened the door, pushing through, Francis following not far behind.

The room they were in seemed to be Kiku's office. Said man was sitting behind a desk as black as ebony. Around the room were various assortments of things from Kiku's native county. Arthur didn't know a lot of them, but he did recognize a stack of books. They were Japanese comic books, if Arthur remembered correctly. Kiku was into that kind of stuff. Cartoons too. It all seemed a little juvenile to him, so he had never gotten into it, but Kiku was all over that kind of stuff. He got dolls and stuff too, sometimes. And he would get really keyed up about things relating to any of his comics and cartoons. It was good to see him so excited, but Arthur could never get into all that child's play.

"Ah, ohayo gozaimasu," Kiku greeted, looking up from something.

"Good morning."

"Bonjour!"

"Prease, sit."

Arthur and Francis sat in front of Kiku's desk at two black chairs with dark green leather cushions that were studded down with gold-colored buttons.

Arthur spoke up first, "So, how is this exactly going to work?"

"The process is a fair-ry simpuru one. Especiarry for men. The onry thing we need from you is some sperm from each of you, and then from there, we take one man's sperm and extract its DNA. That DNA is infused into a woman's egg we already have prepared, and then we ret the other man's sperm mix with the egg. So, the chird has DNA from both parents, thus it is the biorogicaru chird of both parents."

Arthur stared, slightly intrigued. "What an interesting way of doing things, I didn't even know we could do that kind of stuff nowadays."

"Hai, science has improved rapid-ry over the rast few years."

"How will the child be born?" Arthur asked curiously.

"Werru, in the future we are hoping we can have the option of a human birthing or a artificiaru birthing, but at the moment, we can onry safery do artificiaru birthing."

"Artificial birthing being…?"

"Test tube babies."

"Test tube babies?" Arthur echoed blankly.

"Essentiarry. The embryos are raised in a rab untiru they are ord enough that they would have orginar-ry been experred from the body."

"Ah."

Kiku shifted slightly, almost looking uncomfortable, as he continued reluctantly, "And, arso, our success-rate hasn't exact-ry been one hundred percent either, but we berieve this time we have got arru the kinks out of the process."

Francis looked over toward Arthur, watching him carefully. "Are you still up for it, mon chér?" he asked seriously.

Arthur was almost shaken by how calm and silent and mature he was being. It raised his respect for his husband a little bit.

There wasn't too much of a risk, unless you counted the emotional damage this might cause if this fell through.

"Ah," Kiku spoke up nervously, "We would inform you every month of their progress. Even send you pictures, if you wish."

Arthur looked from Kiku to Francis, before turning back to his Japanese friend. A sigh passed his lips before he looked up with a smile, "Well, why not. Having a couple little tikes running around wouldn't be so bad."

Francis smiled widely, "You just want to 'ave my children, don't you?" he said, leaning over kissing Arthur on the cheek. Arthur flushed furiously, and looked over to Kiku apologetically, who was also a little red. Though, he looked more excited than embarrassed. He started to frantically do something on a page of a sketch book, or notepad of some sort.

"Er, Kiku…"

"Eh?!" Kiku jumped up, "Ah, sumimasen…" he began to murmur something in Japanese as an apology, but Arthur didn't understand it so he simply ignored it.

The Japanese man shifted through some things on his desk and handed Francis and Arthur each a packet of papers. "Prease read and firru this out."

Arthur glanced over the packet. It was mostly about legal issues and how they wouldn't be liable for any damage or the success of the birth etc etc.

Slowly, the two read through most of the packet and began filling out the information portion. The Englishman hesitated over a question, his cheeks turning a bit pink.

"**Are you sexually active?**"

**Not at all**

**Sometimes**

**All the time**

He didn't want to lie and pick, "Not at all" but he didn't really want to answer the question with anything other than that.

"Do we have to fill out _all_ the questions on this packet?"

"We would prefer it if you did."

"But we don't have to?

"Iie, not necessari-ry ."

"Which question are you stuck on, chéri?" Francis said, glancing over. Before Arthur could stop him, Francis smirked and circled "All the time" on Arthur's packet in blue pen. "Zhat was an easy one, petite lapin," he purred.

Arthur gritted his teeth, taking his own pen and scratching out the circled option until you couldn't see the writing anymore. Then he circled the first option, smirking back at Francis. "That's what I think of your bloody option!"

"But zhen our packets won't match, mon chér, 'ere let me fix yours," Francis leaned over to grab Arthur's packet, but instead the Englishman snatched Francis' right from his grip.

"No, let me fix yours!" Arthur said, beginning to scratch out the horrid option from the paper. The Frenchman lunged and grabbed Arthur's arm, trying to pull the pen from the page.

"Non!" Francis protested, "I won't let you destroy proof of our amour!"

"Oh yeah? You can bloody well try, but it's not going to work!" Arthur said, fighting back with as much force as he could muster to push the pens tip back onto the packet.

For several moments the two glared into each other's eyes, using all the strength they had against each other, occasionally making lines here or there on the packet but not where Arthur wanted it. They were of equal match in strength, for the most part.

Kiku sat at his desk, at a loss for words, unsure of what he should do, if he should break it up.

Finally Kiku spoke up, "Anoo…"

Francis and Arthur suddenly seemed to remember that there was someone else in the room, and they jumped apart. Arthur gave a nervous laugh, "Sorry about that ol' chap, you know how skirmishes can get."

"Werru, no—"

"If you want, I can make it up to you, _in bed_," Francis teased, giving a wink.

"Okotowarishimasu, no thank you." Kiku said immediately, without even pausing.

"Aha! There is your bloody answer!" Arthur said. Francis turned around to see his packet being handed back, "Not at all" circled, the whole paper covered in scribbles and chicken-scratch.

Francis frowned, "Poo, I wasn't paying attention. Zhat's not fair."

"Well, bloody too bad. That's what you get, you dumb frog."

The two finished the rest of the packet without too much more fuss, and handed it back to Kiku. The Japanese man nodded and gestured out of his office, "If you are ready today, we wirru be glad to take your DNA. There wirru be a rady outside, she wirru show you to the right prace."

"Thank you, Kiku."

"Oui, merci, and my offer always stands."

Kiku ignored that last comment, watching them leaving the room. And he suddenly felt a little worried about those two being _parents_. He hoped the kids would be okay…

As Kiku had said, there was a lady waiting outside. She was just as generic as the first lady; standard uniform, brown hair, ever-smiling face.

"This way please," she said.

Francis and Arthur followed after her, down the mazes of halls again, until they reached a room full of stalls. The woman politely showed them each to a stall, and handed them, what looked like, little ketchup packets. But that was obviously not what it was. She also handed them little plastic cups. She explained what they had to do, as if it wasn't apparent already.

"I will be at the door when you're done to collect the samples," she said brightly, and strolled over to the doors they had walked in.

Arthur sighed slightly, his cheeks a little pink. He didn't really want to do this, but he had no choice really. Gentleman like himself did not do such a fervid thing. Francis probably wouldn't mind though.

The Englishman walked in to the stall. There was a leather couch facing away from him and above it on the opposite wall, a very large, very _uncensored_ picture of a naked man. Arthur quickly looked away, "Bloody hell…" he muttered.

From the next stall over there came a yell, "Zhese paintings are alright, I do appreciate a beautiful body you know, but zhe are nothing compared to me, am I right mon chér?"

"Just shut the bloody hell up and let's get on with this!" Arthur said, still not really wanting to meet the eyes of the naked portrait.

"Ah, mon petite lapin, if you need assistance I'm always ready to 'elp."

The Briton flushed deeply, he could not take all this. "Just bloody! You! Just bugger off! W—" he stuttered, and almost called Francis a 'wanker' but then stopped himself. It seemed a little hypocritical, considering what both of them were just about to do.

The following minutes ought not to be told.

After all was said and done, the papers were all filled out, and everything was set in place, Arthur and Francis left the facility.

They had signed up to get monthly updates on how their child was doing. It was all very confusing and scary, but also strangely exciting. The kind of exciting that gets inside your head and chest and eats you from the inside out.

Arthur and Francis got back in their car, driving toward the entrance gate again. Once again they had to wait for Feliks to move the cones, but he didn't do it right away.

"I, like, totally forgot!" he giggled, and reached a lime-fingernailed hand into the car from the open window, "Like, you guys must have cell phones right? Give one to me!"

"Uh, actually," Arthur paused for a moment, "I don't believe we do."

"Non, we do not."

"_WHAT_?!" Feliks mouth dropped open, "Are you, like, totally SERIOUS?!"

"Er, yes," Arthur said, feeling a little awkward that he was being stared at so incredulously.

"How do you, like, _call_ people?" Feliks asked, retracting his hand and leaning more onto the window frame more, "Don't tell me you actually send PAPER MAIL still?"

Suddenly Arthur felt very old, "Well, we don't do that exactly. We do have a house phone. And I do email various people…"

"_Geez_, I totally thought you were a lost cause there for a mo'. Here, let me give you my cell." The tranny pulled a pen out of the top of his shirt – (bra?) – and grabbed whoever was nearest, which just so happened to be Francis, and scribbling down a cutely-written string of numbers. Feliks was so fast, he was able to scribble it down before Francis had time to jerk his hand away.

"Oi! I am not a piece of paper to scribble on! Zhis perfect skin was meant to be admired and worshipped, not drawn all over!"

Feliks frowned at Francis, "Well, GEEZ, what has got _your_ girly parts in a _twist_!" He turned around haughtily, picking up the safety cones as he strutted back to the security booth.

Francis frowned after their old friend, and turned back to the road, snootily driving away from the facility.

Arthur was a little glad they wouldn't have to go back there for a while, in all honesty.

"Do you know how to get to the convention from here?" Arthur asked, looking over at Francis.

His husband's face twitched in a frown.

The Englishman sighed, "You don't, do you? Let's see, turn up here."

"You just know your way around _everyzhing_, don't you?" Francis said with his usual profane humor.

"Just bloody SHUT UP for a moment! Can't you go ten minutes without making disgusting comments?" Arthur spat.

They drove in silence for the most part, not counting Arthurs occasional "Turn here" or "You missed the bloody exit, do a u-turn up here".

They reached their final destination early, and pulled up to one of the reserved parking spaces. Slipping out of the horrid little car, the two made their way into the large building. Francis pulled a small mirror out of his coat pocket along with a comb, carefully smoothing out and parting the wilder sections of his wavy hair. Then when he was done, he pulled back the mirror to look at his whole face.

"Gorgeous as always," he hummed as he stuffed the items back into his pocket.

Arthur and Francis entered a huge room, larger than a ballroom. The floor was light, polished and freshly waxed wood, and Arthur was almost grateful for that. Wine did not mix with carpet. Row after row after row of small tables filled the room, two chairs per table and both were on the side closest to the wall. At the very end of the hall was a long table with a light blue tablecloth. That must be where the judges sat. A couple of them were already there, quietly sitting or setting themselves up.

Francis made a beeline for the judges table, and Arthur followed him silently before breaking off and moving toward one of the small tables. Francis nodded at other judge in greeting, before turning to Arthur for a moment, and realizing he wasn't behind him anymore.

Francis walked over to his husband, who was sitting at a little table, "What are you doing over 'ere?"

"Sitting," Arthur replied irritably, "What does it look like?"

"Why are you sitting over '_ere_?"

"What?" Arthur asked, thoroughly confused as to what Francis wanted.

"Sit with me, mon chér, why do you insist on sitting so far away! Are you embarrassed you will look bland compared to me? Don't worry, you look tasteless to begin with, I am sure no one will notice you!"

"Oh, sod _off_!"

But in the end, Arthur found himself sitting next to Francis at the blue tablecloth table, watching as people slowly trickled in for the convention.


	6. Alcoholic Waffle

Author's Note + apology at the bottom

* * *

><p>Five or six wine samplers later, Arthur was still sitting with Francis, and, much to the Frenchman's surprise, wasn't insanely drunk yet.<p>

Arthur set down the empty fiberglass cup on the blue table cover. He gave a soft sigh, and surveyed the crowd that had stuffed themselves into the convention hall. It was almost amazing how many people you could cram into a room, lined up like sardines, walking around trying to get a sip of alcohol here and there. Even with the tables, the room was packed. It seemed the sponsors had not expected so many people.

Arthur pondered somewhere in the back of his mind whether this was because of the critics. He noticed some people were chatting with the critics more than they were taste testing; in fact, the man that was standing before Francis was doing just that. The Frenchman was trying to be agreeable, but the pompous fellow was giving him a hard time. A woman standing next to him, presumably his friend, looked over at Arthur and gave a little wave, looking apologetic.

"Vhat are you saying? Zhat _zhis_ is a vine suited for nobility?"

"Monsieur, I assure you, I only stated zhat zhe wine was of regal flavor and zhat it 'ad a smooth finish."

Before the man could shoot back a retort, the girl from behind him pulled on his sleeve. He turned, "Vhat is it?"

"We are holding up se line, come on, let's go."

He watched her for a second, then gave a huff, and surrendered. He turned, starting to work his way through the crowd, and his companion grabbed his hand quickly. Before they were gone, she turned and apologized about her husband being such a 'douchenozzle'.

Arthur and Francis watched her leave. 'Douchenozzle'. Who even _said that_?

Other than the occasional unsatisfied customer, the wine convention was rather uneventful. Most of the time, Arthur sat there, people-watching and sipping wine. Francis spoke to the people that came up to him, advising wine or chatting. Of course, there was the occasional flirting too. It _was_ Francis after all.

Nearer to the end of the convention, a woman came up to the stand, smirking down at Francis.

Francis seemed to pause for a moment, then, "Jeanne!" He broke out into a smile, standing up so he could give each of her cheeks a light peck on either side; she returned the gesture. Arthur watched from his seat, slightly curious who this girl was. He had never seen her before, nor had he ever heard Francis utter that name.

Jeanne noticed Arthur's face, and glanced over at him, looking him up and down, her eyes almost turned hungry for a fraction of a second before Francis broke her out of her trance with a dark chuckle. "Jeanne, you are zhinking of stealing my 'usband away from me, are you not?"

She turned, smirking right back, "And if I was?"

"I would 'ate to ruin zhat pretty face,"

Jeanne gave a laugh, similar to Francis', but higher. "Oh, stop darling. I know you wouldn't destroy somezhing prettier zhan youself."

"Ohohon, you zhink so?" The rivalry between the two was almost tangible, and before Francis could finish his probably-snarky-response, the woman cut over him, "So, aren't you going to introduce me?" She shot a quick glance over in Arthur's direction, and met Francis' eyes, that seemed to light up a little bit.

"Zhis is Arzhur Kirkland, Arzhur, this is Jeanne Benoit. I 'ave known her since I was un petite enfant!"

Arthur nodded, standing up and reaching out a hand to shake on a greeting. If he was going to be introduced, he was going to do it properly. Jeanne's lips twitched in a smile, and she reached forward, grabbing the Englishman's hand in a firm shake. He was quite surprised how strong the shake was, not expecting such a solid grip.

"It's good to meet you, darling," Jeanne purred before she retracted her manicured hand, "'opefully zhis… degenerate… 'asn't treated you too badly."

"Oh, uh, no," Arthur said stiffly, still standing up awkwardly. Degenerate was a bit of a harsh word, even if it was Francis, but she had said it in such a way that it seemed more good-humored than malicious. Hesitantly, the Englishman took his seat again, watching her as she averted her attention back to a pouting Francis.

"Anyway darling, I just wanted to pop in," then in an instant, she slipped into her native language, and the two were off in a high-speed conversation, words tumbling out of their mouths at 90mph, not giving any indication that Arthur was even there. The Englishman, only knowing a couple words, felt a little left out. He wasn't going to show it though. His pride protected him from that, and leaned back in his chair, taking a sip of a wine sample that he hadn't cared to finish.

After a few more minutes of this incessant chatter, Jeanne glanced at her wristwatch, the face lying on the inside of her wrist. She frowned slightly, then her face brightened, "Well, I 'ave to go or I'll be late. Au revoir, darling."

Jeanne and Francis exchanged goodbye kisses, then Jeanne turned to Arthur, and gave him kisses on the cheek too. She then swept away, quick and graceful, almost similar to Francis to some extent. Flushed and a bit annoyed at her familiarity, Arthur turned to Francis, "So who exactly was she?" he asked crossly. Francis smiled lightly at him, "She is an old friend of mine; we grew up togezher." The Frenchman rarely talked about his childhood, so Arthur perked up, listening intently now. "She lived in the town 'ouse next to mine; I used to hide over at 'er 'ouse when my parents became unbearable."

Arthur nodded a little, understanding the problems with family.

"So," Francis sighed, "Zhat is zhat." He glanced up at the clock on the wall. "We should probably leave in a couple 'ours, maybe figure out what to 'ave for dinner." the Frenchman leaned back in his chair a bit before glancing over at his husband, awaiting a response. Arthur nodded slightly, "Yes, that sounds like a splendid idea."

Two hours later, the hype had died down, and most of the remaining people were either quietly drunk or had built up a tolerance and could take such alcohol in large amounts. Most of the other critics had left already, but Francis decided to stay a bit longer, introducing Arthur to a couple people who had dared to ask who he was. Arthur did look quite out of place at the critics table; there were no papers in front of him, no people talking to him, just a pile of empty sampler cups and a bored look. People-watching was something Arthur enjoyed, yes, but not for long hours in an uncomfortable chair. When he stood up to leave, he swayed a little, and grabbed Francis' arm to steady himself. How much wine did he drink? It couldn't have been that much!

"You alright zhere?" Smirk. "'ad a bit too much to drink?"

"I bloody have not! I am perfectly stable!"

Francis snorted, "Like 'ell you are, mon cher," and he took Arthur's other hand, helping him to steady himself further.

Once Arthur was on his feet and did not appear to be in any danger of toppling over, Francis released him, and gathered up his stuff, which wasn't much all things considered. It was merely a coat and some other small belonging that had found themselves unattached to his body through the course of the evening.

"I'm a bit hungry," Arthur murmured, straightening himself up as he fixed his jacket. "D' ya fancy a dinner out? It doesn't have to be anything extravagant, mind you, just a dinner."

"Oui, zhat would be nice, especially since we cannot use our stove anymore, hm?" Francis shot him a look out of the corner of his eye, accompanied by a smirk.

"Sod off, tosser," Arthur hissed lowly, not really wanting to draw attention to himself in this nearly-empty hall now.

"What was zhat? I could not 'ear you, mon petite lapin. Soin de répéter?"

Francis was just playing with him now, and the Englishman was not going to stand for it.

"You know bleeding well what I said," Arthur muttered crossly.

Francis pouted a little, realizing he was going to get no fun out of Arthur, and he wasn't drunk enough to fall for petty tricks today.

"Where would you like to go? Any place in mind?" The Frenchman asked, pushing in his chair and beginning to scud around the judge table, Arthur following after him in a brisk-but-slightly-out-of-it manner.

"Naaah, I wasn't thinking a' any place in particular," Arthur mused, "What about that pub, The Acorn?"

Francis gave it a thought, "I suppose so. Zhey won't 'ave anyzhing fit for my superior palate but I will give it a try. At least it would be better zhan zhe alternative."

Arthur shot his husband a glare, "If yooou are implyin' 'the alternative' is my cooking–" he started, but Francis interrupted him.

"I said nozhing of zhe sort."

Arthur silently fumed, shooting daggers at the Frenchman's back as they walked down the long ballroom to the exit door.

It wasn't long before they were outside and slipping into the car again, off to somewhere else. By now, Arthur was a bit sick of this car, but it was better than being in that hard judges' chair. Anything was better than that.

They drove in a comfortable silence, Arthur's mind swimming with all the recent events. The alcohol didn't help much either, making his emotions feel just a tad more extreme.

Francis, on the other hand, was half paying attention to where he was and where he was going, and half thinking about all the particulars of his job, like where the critique would go and when it would be published, etc.

Thankfully for Arthur, the ride wasn't a very long one. They were quite a ways out from their apartment, but still close enough to the convention hall for it to be a convenient place to stop and grab some chow before taking the lengthy drive home.

The pub was a nice one. It wasn't some dirty hole-in-the-wall, nor was it a huge, unfriendly franchise. It was just a medium-sized, two-story brick building with a green sign hanging over the door with the words "**THE ACORN**" written on it in white. The inside was always warm and comfortably full, with simple yet relaxing wooden chairs and tables.

Subsequent to parking the car, the two wandered inside the building, finding themselves a seat amongst the filled tables.

As soon as their bottoms hit the seats, there was a waitress standing over their table, placing two laminated menus before them. "Um, velcome to the Acorn," she greeted shyly but in a very polite manner. "Vhat can I get for you today?" With the hand that held her pen, she pushed back her hair out of her face along with a ribbon tied firmly in her short blonde hair.

"Water, s'il vous plaît." Francis responded immediately, giving a smile, "And coffee for my friend 'ere,"

"I do not want bloody coffee! You will _not_ order fer me!" Arthur fumed, turning to the girl who had slightly recoiled at his outburst, "Do you serve lager here?"

"Non, no more alcohol for you mon chéri, you are drunk as it is!"

"Bollocks! I'm not drunk; you're tha one that's drunk! I, ugh," a wave of nausea came over Arthur, and he leaned back in his chair, putting a finger over his mouth for a moment. He was not to be sick in here.

This moment of silence was all Francis needed, "Get 'im a coffee, zhe strong kind."

"Yes, right avay sir!" she murmured hastily, turning around and scampering away.

The Brit seemed to calm down a little, "Bloody hell, you coulda at least gotten tea instead, coffee is atrocious!"

France ignored his husband, nodding after the girl, "Now look at zhat. You frightened 'er."

"If something frightened her, it was you, with your unruly hair an' ugly goatee!" the Brit hissed, seeming to get his second wind.

"Zhis is NOT," Francis said, deeply offended, "A _goatee_. Zhis is a perfectly carved beard, not zhat a frump like you would know!"

"A, A _frump_?!" Arthur huffed, "I'll have ya know I am perfectly fashionable!"

Francis gave a dry laugh, "Only after I zhrew 'alf of your clozhes out."

Arthur puffed out, gritted his teeth, "Come ta think of it, you did, didn't you! What the fuck is wrong with you; those were some a' my best clothes!"

"If by 'best' you mean passé, zhen oui, zhey were your best clozhes," Francis replied flatly, glancing over the menu without a single look toward his husband.

"Oi, oi, what if I was to throw out aaall of your bloody '_passé_'," he practically spat out the word, "clothes! You wouldn't be happy, wouldn't you!"

"I would be perfectly fine."

"What?! Liar! You are so concerned about your appearance you spend a whole hour sometimes trying to decide what you'll bloody wear that day! And when I try ta help you, you just fucking brush me off! You tell me you've got it figured out an' that you don't need any help but then you take more time and I just think that's total bollocks! Don't try to fool me; I know you care 'bout your clothes! You'd probably blub up a fucking storm if I threw your clothes out!"

"Mon chéri, you forget, none of my clozhes are drab like yours. Zhere wouldn't be anyzhing to zhrow out."

Arthur scowled, jabbing his pointer finger and middle finger in an upward direction, in an 'up yours' hand gesture.

There was a clunk of a glass on the table, which snapped both of them out of their quarrel. The girl was back with their drinks, and looking just a little rattled. She was probably new; it wasn't like this pub didn't have rowdy customers now and again.

"Are you ready to order?" she asked sheepishly as soon as the drinks were placed in front of the right people.

"Well?" Francis asked, casting his gaze over to Arthur. The Englishman sat up a bit straighter, glaring at his husband before saying to the waitress in a sloppy manner, "If you have steak and kidney pie," he paused and didn't finish.

"Um, ja, yes, I mean, yes ve do," she sputtered, then turned to Francis.

"I will 'ave the open cauliflower cheese pie s'il vous plait," he said with a dashing smile in her direction.

She scribbled something down on her notepad before politely excusing herself, informing them their food would be out soon.

The food came at an average pace. Definitely not the 'soon' they were promised, but it mattered not. The food was respectable; nothing to write home about, but tasty enough that the couple would probably return in the future.

By the time they were finished and paying the bill, Arthur was slightly quieter, but no less drunk that he had been. It was enough for Francis that they weren't the center of attention anymore.

Francis stood; made sure he had everything, then extended a hand to his husband, who was starting to slow down and get tired. The Frenchman _at least_ wanted to get Arthur in the car before he passed out. It would be so troublesome to drag him out to the car from the restaurant, not to mention how it would require Francis to do physical labor.

Arthur slapped his hand away, pushing himself out of the chair hastily. "I dun need any bloody help," he tried to hiss, but it just came out tired and slurred.

As they proceeded outside, Francis kept an eye on his husband. Who knows when the Englishman would decide to take a topple, and once he hit the ground, he'd probably refuse to get up, or be seriously pissed off, or both for that matter.

To Francis' relief, they got to the car without a hitch, and Arthur let himself into the passenger's seat with a slam. His husband slipped into the driver's seat, and started the car. He pulled out and began driving. There wasn't much traffic out, but Arthur was already letting out a stream of mumbled curses. After about five minutes however, he stopped, and his breathing was leveled out to a soft and shallow rhythm.

Parking their cramped car in a slot, Francis opened his door to meet the cool night air. A part of him wanted to ditch Arthur in the car, make up some excuse, but another part told him he should bring his husband in, so he didn't catch a cold. Arthur was always the worst when he had a cold. Additionally, it was the polite thing to do.

Francis moved around to the passenger's side, opening the door carefully, just in case Arthur was leaning on the door. He wasn't. The Frenchman shook him, seeing if he could wake him up; perhaps he'd be able to walk so Francis wouldn't have to carry him. But, no luck. Arthur was out like a light.

Francis stooped down, taking his husband around the waist and trying to hoist him up. Wow, he was heavy. Really heavy. Francis could not get him three inches off the seat. He let out a little curse in French, before placing his husband back on his spot. Letting out a sigh, he realized he was in need of assistance.

The Frenchman closed the doors, deciding he didn't need to lock them, and continued up to his favorite neighbor's apartment. Antonio didn't work out excessively, but he did a lot more manual labor and, Francis figured, between the two of them, one little Brit wasn't going to be a problem.

He rapped on the Spaniard's door. Antonio opened his door, only in a grey t-shirt and tomato boxers.

"What is it, mi amigo?" he asked in his usual cheerful way.

"I was curious if you could 'elp me get Arzhur into zhe apartment. 'e is too 'eavy for me."

"Claro!" The Spaniard slid out of his room, following his French friend down to the parking lot, not bothering to change into anything different. It didn't matter to him.

Together, the two of them lifted the Brit out of the car, and up the stairs toward the apartment. When the two finally got the door open, and Arthur inside, they didn't bother to put him to bed, and instead placed him onto the couch.

"Oy," the Spaniard complained, stretching his arms upward,

"He is heavy."

Francis let out the breath he had been holding in, like a steam-powered train sighing to a halt. He muttered something in French, but it either was disregarded, or it was deemed unimportant, because the next moment Antonio was at the door.

"Amigo, I am out. I am going to sleep. Buenas noches."

"Bonne nuit."

And he was gone.

* * *

><p>Sorry it took me forever to update. I've actually had this chapter pretty much done for a while, so it's inexcusable. I'm going to try to get back on the ball with this fanfiction here, because I really do want to continue it and get to some later parts. Thank you for bearing with me on this, and thank you for reading.<p> 


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